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Thursday, September 13, 2007

"Baby, this’s my heart, you can cut it. I love you, forever."

I had an emotional injury earlier this year. That’s why I’ve been cognitively paralyzed for quite a while and in recovery. What happened? Well, metaphorically speaking, a Chevron truck of the biggest tank of gas that you’d even shiver in your cheap Japanese coupe when it got so close on the 710 crashed into my Hello Kitty Honda Accord and blew my brain up. Ever since then, what I do everyday are just work and write.

Of course, I’m not gonna write screenplay. That’s too provincial for a disturbed, crazy woman like me. Everybody in L.A. writes screenplay. So what. Instead, I only write stuff that get men that broke my heart in trouble. So now I’m writing a kick-ass x-rated love story about Grass-eater as my top-priority project every night. I stare at the street where he kissed me, his trees, his lamp poles, his open lots, right in front of his home, sip some cheap beer with almost no food, and write. You think Bukowski is tragic-cool? Not even close. That dude’s just a drunk fuck. Wait until you see how a mentally disabled woman on her $8 Ikea folding chair with Miller beer in hand writes, THEN publishes it. As much as I know nothing I write is libel or invasion of privacy and Grass-eater will have no case, I have asked my lawyer friends, read about them and am prepared that not even until next life, but just soon after I publish it, I may see his lawyer’s letter in my mailbox and meet him again in court. Woo! I’m gonna see my used-to-be knight in shining armor again in the U.S. Supreme Court! How new! I’ve never been sued before. :-D

Why do I have to do that instead of let it go? Cuz I’m sick of being silenced. How many times have mom and dad and these men tried to drive me out of my nut head so they can take over it? Since the moment I sat on the couch in the model unit in this building, read through the terms and signed the lease of this apartment in Downtown and my own head after Grass-eater scorned me, I make no deal with anybody that shuts me off again. I have my own place, and my own head, and they are both under rent control either in the sense of the City of L.A. or my emotional security, so no one can kick me out as long as I pay rent. Ever heard of the story of Echo and Narcissus in Greek mythology? She was punished for talking too much. Know what? I’m SO going to talk about grass eating all out aloud! Instead of repeating the last few words others say like how Echo is cursed to, I fuck that narcissist dude’s brains out AND write about him. He may only see his own reflection on the river. He may only run away from me as far as he can because he is frightened of the burning flame in me, but I know so well that he is going to remember how it was like when my beautiful naked body was in his bed every morning he wakes up hard and the intense writing I do that he dares not even read. This’s not even feminism. This’s simply hysteria.

10 comments:

I wonder if you should give your prospective suitors a "quiz" before you invite them to "enter" [yes, I intend the double entendre] your life…like this [it can be "open book" and there will be a little math]:

1. How many times does Downtownchick mention "Grass-eater" in her blogs?

a. Lotsb. Neverc. 121 timesd. A number equivalent to the cube root of 125 minus the number of tusks on the normal male narwhale.e. I am Grass-eater!!

2. There is a striking similarity between Downtownchick's obsession with Grass-eater and the obsession of her Chinese admirerer.

a. Trueb. Oh yesc. Very trued. All too truee. Could it be truer? [rhetorical]

3. What do the think the question was that Grass-eater asked her?

[short answer]

4. Why do you want to become the "BF" of someone who can, at best, give her body to you -- but not her heart, her mind and her soul?

“Issues” can manifest themselves in many ways from something like nail-biting and a love of fried foods to drug-addiction. In other words they can be innocuous or dangerous or anything in between.

An “obsession” takes over a person’s consciousness to one extent or another. And, in so doing, it becomes the dominant force in a person’s life. That’s dangerous, and that’s the similarity I see. Sure, the catalyst for you obsession was a betrayal — someone else, and the catlayst for your admirer’s obsession comes from himself.

But the result is the same — neither one of you are your “own person” — you’re owned by your obsession.

Ok…I know…now you probably hate my guts…but…I’m not going to lie to you. That’s what I see….and, while I don’t give a shit about your Chinese Admirer….I do give a shit about you…

Bob, I can't have issues, because I'm not a real person; I'm a persona, if you happen to have forgotten. There's a reason why things're written in different projects. I think you're mixing them up, especially when you repeat same comments in different places LOL...

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May I encourage my readers to leave comments? This blog has been getting three figure hits daily while I rarely see any comments except from my honorary reader Professor Pielke. I have no idea from where the traffic is drawn (it says “no referring link” for 98% of the clicks). I just wanna know if it's in the process that a bucket of feces on Downtownchick’s doorstep is plotted so that I can stock up cleaning supplies from 99¢ Store or if you just accidentally spell the entire URL correctly on your address bar when you sleepwalk. That’s all.

Who the heck’s Downtown Chick?

That crazy bitch lives in an old building for writers and the mentally ill in the old bank district in Los Angeles Downtown alone after she was discharged from the asylum. Because of her multiple personality disorder, she has to write her alter-ego blog here when she does not play her primary role around her boss, mom, dad, uncles, aunts, cousins, boyfriends, girlfriends, neighbors, fans, stalkers, and oh mine, her dream guy with whom she wants to share her most inner secrets, hopes and dreams!

Anyhow, she specializes in inventing a new form of mental seclusion in a cosmopolitan environment in the 21th century. Her hobbies include flirting with her shrink, loitering by major drug dealer locations on Los Angeles Street and online bargain shopping for Prozac alternatives. She can be reached at downtownchick@gmail.com.